


a line that never ends

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Series: Our Dreams Wide Open [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A play on the garden chess scene, Cullen is oblivious, Dancing, F/M, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Hawke and Fenris are at Skyhold, M/M, Mutual Pining, Retcon Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: The Skyhold crew are getting ready for Halamshiral. Dorian and the Inquisitor haven't quite gotten their relationship off the rocks yet.





	a line that never ends

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I lied I'm back! 
> 
> I started Trespasser for the millionth time the other day and the Dorian/Inquisitor romance gave me a lot of feelings so I had to write my favorite idiots again. 
> 
> I kind of retconned my own timeline to make this work but oh well. It happens. 
> 
> Hope you like it!

The days leading up to their sojourn to the Winter Palace are fraught with tension, arguments and dramatic outbursts. 

Most of which are from Josephine Montilyet and Dorian Pavus.

“I absolutely refuse to wear that crimson travesty, Ambassador Montilyet!” Dorian snarls the afternoon she’s cornered him and thrust his freshly tailored velvet and leather uniform under his nose. A blue satin sash drapes the folds, shining in the candlelight of his library nook. 

She glares down at him and stabs an imperious finger in his half-bared chest. 

“Unclothed nipples are frowned upon at the Winter Palace, Lord Pavus,” she says, haughty accent doing little to hide the ice in her voice. “You will wear the uniform or you will stay at Skyhold. I don’t care what Inquisitor Lavellan says.” 

“This is a fashion nightmare, my dear lady,” Dorian says, pushing the uniform across his book-strewn table with the very tips of his fingers and a wrinkled nose. “You and your spymistress are so-called authorities on Orlesian fashion and this is what you came up with? I am ashamed to call you my friend.” 

Josephine snorts and crosses her arms across her chest. 

“Dorian,” she says, her voice taking on a modicum of calm. “We must present ourselves as a united front. We must appear professional and organized. And-”

“And we are certainly that,” Dorian says, rising slowly and tucking the small black book he’d been reading in his grimoire pouch. “But you must understand, Ambassador, you are also leading a group of varied and colorful individuals from any number of cultures clustered within Thedas. Your own figurehead is a Dalish elf. Mahanon’s heritage has been scrubbed for centuries from Orlais’ history books. We will be walking within the desecrated halls of an elvhen palace.” 

Dorian hesitates, meeting Josephine’s shocked gaze and he sighs. 

“I am not one for propriety most times, or consideration of others,” he says, his voice softening and he places his hand gently on her shoulder. “But perhaps we should regard our Inquisitor a tad bit more carefully and allow him to present himself to Orlais as he sees fit. We’ve already taken so much from him.” 

They are quiet for a moment, Josie’s cheeks warming with the gentle scold and she nudges him gently with her elbow before reaching for the bundle of velvet. 

“You make a good point,” she says, begrudging surrender in her tone. “Even if it’s just so you don’t have to wear the uniform, Pavus. I will bring it up with Leliana and see what she thinks.”

She winks and before he can summon anything more than a feeble half-hearted sputter of indignation, she flounces away, most like to confront the elvhen mage down below. 

Dorian, relieved to no longer have scarlet velvet corrupting his poor books, gathers himself and slips from his nook, making his way to the twisting stairs that lead to the main hall of Skyhold. Idle chatter washes around him, most of the Inquisition’s followers busy discussing their excursion into Orlesian politics and he grins, hearing a few women gossiping about the Inquisitor. 

“...I wonder who he’ll dance with, at the ball,” one of the girls says, her voice pitched low and her companions, each busy winding bandages or grinding elfroot for poultices, lean closer. “I’ve heard he’s been getting familiar with the Seeker!”

“Cassandra Pentaghast, dancing?” one of the girls declares, giggling. “That would be a sight! And one most would never live to tell of!”

Tittering greets her words and Dorian hovers in the shadows of the doorway, tightening one of the straps keeping his staff tight across his back. 

“I’ve heard the Inquisitor plays chess with the Commander at least twice a week,” another woman says, her Ferelden accent rich in the tangle of Orlesian and Antivan voices. “That would be a good pairing. A solid man to ground our wild Dalish mage.” 

Dorian’s brow cocks at that and his gaze drifts to the garden doorway. Dwarves cluster before it, discussing the shoring of the crumbling wall its set in and he winces internally at the thought of wading through them. 

The last time he’d made his way to the garden they’d weighleighed him, discussing lyrium trade in the Imperium. It’d be an hour long, grueling conversation full of economics and dwarven politics he had absolutely no head for. 

“Anything but that magister, I say,” a wizened crone with a thick Starkhaven accent interjects in that moment and Dorian’s eyes flash back to the biddies, narrowing as they all nod seriously, murmuring their agreements. “He’s a troublemaker if ever there was one. And I dinnae trust him further than I can throw him.” 

Dorian rolls his eyes at that, taking that moment to slip from the shadows and bow elaborately at the ladies. 

“Good afternoon, sweet ladies,” he says, venom dripping from his ever so polite words. “It is good to see you so well today.” 

They all gape at him, blushes lighting their swarthy, homely faces and the crone wrinkles her nose when he takes up her hand and places a gentle kiss on her gnarled knuckles. 

“I daresay, madam,” he says, winking and clutching her hand tight. “You Starkhaven types are of hardy stock.” His gaze sharpens and his lips twist in a bitter smile. “I think you’d find you could toss me rather far.” 

Her gasp echoes in his ears, even as he makes his way across the now silent great hall and the dwarves scatter for him, bowing hurriedly and murmuring greetings which he ignores. The garden door thuds closed behind him, the perfect punctuation for his dramatic exit and he sighs, leaning back against the heavy wood, urging his racing heart to calm. 

“Fool of an altus,” he sighs, pushing off the door and heading into the garden. A few of Mahanon’s followers lounge about the paved courtyard. Some tend his plants, pruning back elfroot or tying up rambling arbor grace. Others simply read in the sunshine, content in the relative peace and quiet of the space. 

Mother Giselle oversees all, her dark eyes sharp in the deep wrinkles of her face but he ignores her, making his way to the shadowed gazebo and the two figures he can see seated beneath its slate roof. 

“Hiding from Lady Montilyet, you two?” he asks, grinning when Cullen Rutherford glances up at him and blushes. Mahanon, taking advantage of the Commander’s distraction, slides one of his pieces up, checking the king.

“What makes you say that?” the Dalish mage asks, smirking when Cullen glances back at the board and grumbles. Mahanon Lavellan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his narrow chest and he cocks a challenging brow at the Fereldan man glaring at him now. “Checkmate, Commander,” he drawls, before turning his gaze up to meet Dorian’s. 

His dusky, tattooed cheeks warm when their eyes meet and Dorian clears his throat, perching on the Commander’s armrest and draping his arm about the back of his chair. 

“Oh she assaulted me with that hideous uniform she and Leliana have created and I believe you two may be on her list of victims this afternoon, once she finds the Champion and that angry elf she calls her consort,” he says, smiling a bit when Cullen shifts beside him, absently studying the board for any chance of escape. 

Mahanon watches them, his green eyes dark in his tattooed face and the elf snorts. 

“She really went through with red velvet then?” he sighs, fiddling with one of the elaborate braids at the top of his head. “I dread to think of what Bull would look like in that.” 

All three men chuckle wryly at the thought and Cullen shakes his head, reaching for his chess case. 

“So you’ve decided on who you’re taking to Halamshiral then?” he asks, voice pitched low and Mahanon shrugs one shoulder. 

“Perhaps,” he sighs, gazing out at the garden. Dorian doesn’t miss the sidelong glance cast his way though, or the quirked corner of lips. “I’m trying to decide on how much of a splash I should make when meeting Celene.” 

Cullen chuckles, chess pieces and board packed away and he rises. 

“You’ll make a splash no matter who you bring, Inquisitor,” he says, shaking his head wryly. “Which is why Josephine is trying to counteract it by forcing us to wear those uniforms I suspect.” 

The mages are quiet as he makes his way out of the garden and Mahanon snorts, dragging his eyes away from his stately shoulders to Dorian’s thoughtful gaze. 

“You two make a handsome pair,” he says, grinning when Dorian jumps and nearly falls off his perch. “Do you think he notices you flirting with him, Pavus?” 

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Does he notice you flirting, Inquisitor?” he asks, leaning across the small table to flick an imaginary fleck of dust from the other man’s gauntleted wrist. “They don’t seem to make them very bright in Ferelden, I’ve come to realize.” 

“It’s because we were raised with mabari cubs, the lot of us,” a woman’s voice drawls from the gazebo steps and both men glance up to see Marian Hawke stalking towards them, her glowering elvhen partner in tow. “You two better skedaddle,” she says, wrinkling her tattooed nose. “Sister Nightingale is on a rampage and she has you in her sights, Vint.” 

“Something about not understanding decorum and protocol,” the elf at her shoulder drawls, grey-green eyes sparkling when Mahanon snorts. He glares at Dorian for a moment before turning his indeterminate gaze upon the Inquisitor. “Why you’re forcing us to attend this nightmare of a masque is beyond me, Lavellan.” 

“Ah Fenris” Mahanon chuckles, rising and clapping the white-haired man on the shoulder. “I’m forcing you two to come because I’m determined to scare Celene and Gaspard so much they forget their family squabbles.” 

He hesitates for a moment, there on the steps and his three companions watch as he raises his marked left hand up, studying the green energy sputtering in his palm. 

“And because I could do with a few more swords I trust at my back.” 

His voice is pitched so low they almost miss it. Almost. 

Dorian shares a heavy, knowing look with Hawke, who sighs. 

“Mahanon,” she says, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “You will have mine and Fenris’ swords. I promise you that. Halamshiral will-”

“-Be a nightmare,” Mahanon says, shrugging her hand free and summoning a small, bitter smile. “I suppose I should find Leliana before she orders her spies to assassinate us all where we sit. Thank you Hawke. And you Fenris. I am glad to have you both at my side.” 

They nod, sad smiles twisting their own lips and he sighs, turning his gaze to where Dorian hovers uncertainly beside the table. 

“May I speak with you?” he asks, jerking his head in the general direction of the keep. 

Dorian, mouth dry and heart hammering in his chest, nods. “Of course,” he says, voice soft. 

“Walk with me,” Mahanon says, bowing slightly at the Champion and her consort before turning on his heel and making his way down the rest of the granite stairs and into the courtyard. Hawke grins at him, winking, which makes her partner roll his eyes but Dorian catches his own small smile as he slips past. 

“Something on your mind, Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, unconsciously mimicking their good commander and Mahanon chuckles. 

“A few things,” he drawls, shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his greatcoat. Their steps are slow, easy and Dorian is suddenly cast back to his days in the Imperium. He’d been forced to promenade with so many young ladies in the early days of his apprenticeship. He’d walked the gardens of his home with more ladies than he could ever recall. 

More often than not each walk had ended with whichever lady storming off in a fugue, never to be seen again. 

Dorian smiles at the thought and glances at the slender, tattooed man walking silently beside him. His tattooed brow is furrowed in pensive thought. Mythal’s branches wrinkle in a charming way Dorian rather enjoys. 

“If you’re not careful, your face will get stuck that way,” he says, reaching out with unthinking fingers to stroke the other man’s temple. 

Mahanon jumps, jerking his head away from Dorian’s fingers and his green eyes blaze furiously for a moment, but just as quickly, his fury fades and his lips twist in a teasing smile. 

“Is that so?” he asks, wrinkling his inked nose now and twisting his face in a grimace. “How long must it stay this way for that to happen? If it does, would Josie let me stay in Skyhold instead of forcing me to parade before the Orlesians?” 

Dorian laughs outright at the other man’s teasing and as they enter the great hall he smooths his finger over the other man’s brow once more. 

“She’ll just slap one of those hideous masks on you, my dear,” he says, grinning when Mahanon’s cheeks warm and the other man shivers under his caress. 

Neither man notices the several sets of eyes watching them or the speculative murmurs as they pass through the hall, towards the Inquisitor’s chambers. 

“Mythal forbid,” Mahanon teases. “Imagine, adding masks to our wardrobes and hiding such stunning faces as yours and mine.” 

Dorian, fingertips burning still from his caress, almost chokes on the compliment and barely notices the Inquisitor opening his door and waving him through. 

“Compliment me like that a bit more, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian says, smirking, “And the ambassador might need to add a gilt edged fan to my ensemble.” 

Mahanon chuckles. “Made you blush, did I?” he asks and Dorian doesn’t miss the hand brushing his hip or the heated glance the other man casts his direction before turning to head up the twisting stairs to his quarters. 

“Never,” Dorian shoots back, only a tad breathless thank you very much and he wills the heat from his cheeks before following the other mage. “It was simply the candlelight and shadows casting my skin in a ruddy hue.” 

“Mmmm,” Mahanon hums. The twining braids spilling from the top of his head brush and sway against his shoulders. The straight line of his back-bisected by his own staff-nearly distracts Dorian. 

Unfortunately, the greatcoat the man wears when out and about the keep hides his perfectly formed ass. 

Something Dorian quite regrets. 

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Inquisitor?” he asks when they finally reach the final landing leading to the Inquisitor’s bedroom and Dorian’s heart is racing. Whether from the interminable stairs, though, or the hand trailing once more over his hip, it’s hard to tell. 

Heated green eyes flash his way once more and scarred lips quirk. 

“Impatient, altus?” the other mage asks a faint growl underlying his words. “Tsk. I thought the Imperium taught their apprentices better than that.” 

The Inquisitor’s chambers are quiet. Peaceful. Dorian takes a moment to glance around, taking in the varying decorations. There are touches of Free Marcher practicality in the bed and sturdy desk. But the bed is covered in red and gold bedding and curtains that fair scream Orlais. 

A bear fur covers much of the dark wood floor before the fireplace, face twisted in a fierce snarl that causes a faint shiver to dart up Dorian’s spine. 

The walls beside the open balcony doors are lined in towering bookcases, each shelf laden with books and trinkets and rolls of vellum. 

The room is stately. 

But also comfortable. 

Mahanon glances up from the letter he’d picked up off the desk the moment he’d broken away from Dorian and cocks a brow. 

“See something you like?” he asks, a small smile curling his lips when Dorian jerks his gaze back to his. 

“Something, yes,” Dorian says, quiet and he sidles closer. “Mahanon…”

He says the Inquisitor’s name without thinking. It slips past his lips before he can even stop himself. 

He hesitates, eyes flying wide and dark green eyes flash from across the room. 

The Dalish mage lowers the letter, some unknown emotion twisting the lines on his face once more but before Dorian can apologize or shove his foot in his damn mouth, he closes the little distance between them and catches Dorian’s hand in one of his. 

“Dorian,” he says, tugging Dorian so close their chests brush. He gazes down into Dorian’s eyes for a long moment, lips curled in a small, knowing smile that does something wicked to Dorian’s limbs. “I’ve been informed that I must know how to dance if I’m to appear in the Orlesian court.” A flash of something dangerous lights his dark green eyes and Dorian actually shudders when his strong arm wraps tight about his waist. “Would you care to teach me a few things?” 

The double meaning in his words is not lost on Dorian’s poor, scrambled mind.

And he grins, placing his free hand on his companion’s chest. 

“My lord Inquisitor,” he says, bobbing in an exaggerated curtsy. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

The other mage chuckles, his chest vibrating against Dorian’s. 

“I’ve thought of nothing but asking you to dance with me, Lord Pavus,” Mahanon says, his voice low. “Gods willing, I’ll get my chance.” 

They turn in lazy circles, there in the Inquisitor’s spacious, elegant chambers. And for a time-for a small, quiet, peaceful time-the only thing that matters are the hands holding Dorian’s waist and hand so very gently. 

“You’ll stun them, Mahanon,” he says, his voice soft and his dark eyes locked on his partner’s. “They won’t know what to make of you.” 

“Good,” the other man murmurs, his hand releasing Dorian’s to cup his chin. His green eyes darken further as he bends his head over Dorian’s. The arm wrapped around his waist, tightens, pulling the other mage close. 

The moment their lips meet Dorian’s heart stutters in his chest and his eyes close.

It is a good kiss. 

A wonderful kiss. 

Maker. 

“Kiss me like that at the Winter Palace,” Dorian breathes, eyes fluttering when their lips part after a long, heated moment. “And the gossiping old ladies in court won’t speak of anything else but the magister of Tevinter corrupting the Inquisitor for months to come.” 

Scarred lips curl in a dangerous, predatory smile. 

“I’ll make a note of that,” Mahanon growls, bending to kiss him once more, this time with far more teeth and tongue than the first caress had held.


End file.
